Monsieur Vicente ushered Nicolas Picot from his office and returned to his desk. He rummaged through his papers until he located a ledger, opened it and ran his finger through the many names scrawled in its pages, muttering to himself as he did so.
‘So many orphans in these times. So much degradation, so much disease. Ah,’ he exclaimed at last. ‘Here he is. Picot. I can hardly read the entry. Says here that . . . His mother and father are both dead. Of course. The boy told us his mother was attacked when he was taken by some men. Terrible business. The father died of fever. Also . . . both his brother and two sisters are dead. Tragic. No relatives, perhaps an uncle somewhere, he says. Some days ago he was found wandering the streets near the river in the east of the city in a most agitated state. Claimed he had escaped from some men who had kidnapped him.’
‘Yes,’ said Lesage. ‘It’s true that his mother was injured but she did not die. No. She is alive and I have been helping her to find the boy for the past few days.’
‘His mother is alive? But he says not.’
‘Yes. I was with her today at a lodging house in Rue Françoise. This is the truth. That’s how we came to be in Paris. We heard of a man called Horst who stole children and brought them here. There is a trade, monsieur.’ He paused. ‘As I’m sure you know.’
Monsieur Vicente perused his ledger for a moment longer before looking up at Lesage with his hands clasped together on the desk. It was clear he did not believe what Lesage had been telling him. ‘If that is all, Monsieur du Coeuret, I have work to attend to. And please, take that child away before it starts crying.’
Lesage sat silently. He gazed up at the high ceiling. A grille set in a corner afforded a view of the street, of people’s boots as they strolled past. A thread of sunlight, a strand of spider’s web. ‘I don’t want the baby, monsieur.’
Monsieur Vicente looked up. ‘What?’
‘I wish to take the boy instead.’
‘I doubt Catherine Monvoisin would be pleased. In any case, I cannot simply release the boy to a man like you. That would be most unethical. The regulations of the institution state quite clearly that –’
‘And what kind of man would I be?’
Monsieur Vicente spread his palms, as if his objections were obvious to anyone who cared to look.
Lesage removed his hat and straightened the wig upon his head. ‘I think you have misunderstood me, Monsieur Vicente. I do not want the boy for . . . for sorcery or anything else of that nature. Nothing like that. The boy needs his mother and Madame Picot is desolate without him. He is her last living child. Think of it. Her husband is dead, her three other children . . .’
Monsieur Vicente clucked his tongue and set about fiddling with his clay pipe. He gestured to the baby sleeping in the cot. ‘And this baby you are purchasing for La Voisin? You wish to give it a good home, I assume? Raise her to be a good Christian? No? I didn’t think so.’
‘The boy is a different matter. He can be reunited with his mother and they might return to their village.’
‘Your reputation precedes you, Monsieur du Coeuret. You have been away for several years, but you are still spoken of in the darker corners of our city. A new name cannot disguise a man’s character any more than some fashionable new clothes can.’
Lesage was indignant. ‘Can a man not change himself? Can he not perform a decent act in his life?’
‘You wish to perform – what? – a noble deed?’
It sounded like an accusation and, indeed, Lesage felt as if he were engaged in an unnatural act. ‘How much would it cost to free the boy?’ he asked.
Monsieur Vicente smiled as if Lesage had at last solved a problem he had set. ‘Ah. You wish to hire him out to do some work for you? That can certainly be arranged. Many of our wards are useful in the community as labourers and mourners and servants. Cooks, cleaners . . .’
‘Yes. What would that cost, then? To hire him?’
Monsieur Vicente puffed on his pipe, then withdrew it from his mouth. With its stem he jabbed at Lesage. ‘How much money do you have with you?’
Lesage sat in silence for a moment, unable to speak. ‘I have the two hundred for the baby and an additional twenty livres of my own,’ he said at last.
‘But you don’t want the newborn?’
‘No.’
‘But what about Madame Monvoisin? She will not be happy.’
Lesage shrugged. He did not wish to think how Catherine might react.
Monsieur Vicente sat back, impressed. ‘Well, noble deeds do not come cheap, monsieur. The boy will cost two hundred and twenty livres.’
Lesage sank back in his chair. Dear God, he thought. That raving monk was right. Here it is, then. My reckoning.